The Stars of Summer (7 page)

CAT EATS MOUSE

F
IFTY MILES AWAY IN NEW YORK CITY,
Fiona Inglethorpe was stuck with one of her least favorite people, too.

The editor sat in her office chair as her head restaurant critic, Gilbert Gadfly, paced and fumed in front of her. “It's not that I'm
jealous
of this Gatsby person,” he said, pausing to lean on the edge of her desk. “It's just that, well, because our last names are so similar, some readers think that
I
wrote that Classy Cakes review! And a man like me has more important things to do with his time than read fan mail about how much people liked something that was written by someone else.”

Better things to do like barging in here,
Fiona thought. These days, she pretty much knew what to expect when she saw Gilbert's bulky form shadowing her doorway. It was never good.

“In any case, I don't see why you would have sent
Gatsby
to review Fusión Tapas instead of me,” he concluded, plopping himself down into her guest chair with a
creak
.

“Because, Gilbert, you told me specifically that you were not interested in reviewing tapas restaurants anymore,” Fiona said. “In fact, I believe I have it right here in an e-mail you sent me.” She turned to her computer, and with a few quick keystrokes had performed a search of her e-mails. “Ah, yes—here it is, in a message dated May third. ‘INGLETHORPE, I HAVE ALREADY COVERED SIX TAPAS RESTAURANTS IN THE PAST NINE MONTHS. I HAVE TAPAS COMING OUT OF MY EARS. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ASSIGNING ME TO REVIEW ANY MORE OF THEM.'”

Across the desk, Gilbert hemmed and hawed. “Well,” he finally managed to say, “I didn't necessarily mean forever . . .”

Fiona shook her head. Nothing she did ever seemed to please this man. Yes, he was an excellent writer and an eater of wide experience, but this wasn't the first time she'd found herself wondering if his best days as a critic might be behind him.

“I can tell what you're thinking,” Gadfly said.

Fiona let out a small sigh. “Can you?”

“Of course,” he said. “You're thinking that it's not too late to pull that review of Fusión Tapas, cancel Gatsby's contract, and send me off to review the place instead.”

“I will do
nothing
of the sort!” Fiona replied. “Gilbert, that review is written and edited and set to be published this Wednesday. By which time, I hope you remember, I will be far away from here, enjoying my first vacation in . . .” How long was it since she'd taken any time off? It felt like years. “In quite a while.”

“Yes, yes,” Gilbert grumbled, “your well-earned break. I don't know how you managed to convince the publishers to let you take more than a month off. That's unheard of in this business.”

It was rather unorthodox, Fiona knew—but then again, she'd been working at the
Standard
for a long time now, and she had amassed quite a backlog of vacation days. What's more, she had made sure to line up five weeks' worth of assignments for all her staff members so that plenty of stories would still get written while she was gone. In fact, she had been in the process of sending off her very last set of assignments when Gilbert had burst in.

“Well, unheard of or not, everything should be perfectly under control while I'm gone,” Fiona said. “That is, if I ever get to finish my last few tasks today. My flight leaves at four thirty.” She glanced meaningfully over at her wall clock, hoping that Gilbert would get the hint. It was one forty now, and she really needed to leave for the airport no later than two.

But contrary to her hopes, Gilbert relaxed even more deeply into his chair. “Ahhh, Inglethorpe,” he intoned. “I just can't imagine you relaxing on a beach somewhere, a pink drink in your hand. Well, the drink, yes. But the rest of it doesn't seem to fit.”

“Who said I was taking a beach vacation?” Fiona asked, though she immediately regretted it. She'd really rather not reveal to Gilbert where she was heading. The whole idea of this vacation was to get
away
from work. She'd already told the publishers that she was not planning to turn her phone on the entire time she was gone, and that any Dining crisis could more than ably be handled by her deputy editor, Jackson Stone.

Thankfully, Gilbert didn't press any harder about her vacation destination. “We'll miss you while you're gone,” he said. “You know . . .”

Fiona stopped listening. If she wanted to get out of here on time, she was going to have to multitask. Turning back to her computer, she finished typing her e-mail to Gladys Gatsby, assigning her two new restaurants to review: a ravioli bar in Midtown and a West African café in Greenwich Village. Fiona remembered from Gladys's original cover letter that she was a fan of Ethiopian food, so she was curious to see what her newest critic would make of a restaurant focusing on cuisine from the other side of Africa.

She was just clicking “Send” when she felt a puff of hot breath on her neck.

“Gilbert!” she cried, whirling around in her swivel chair. Her knees knocked into the large man's stomach and he stumbled back, nearly toppling the orchid she kept in the window. “What are you
doing
? Are you reading over my shoulder?”

“Don't be preposterous,” he snorted. “I was just . . . taking a look at this lovely flower. It's actually looking thirsty, if you ask me. Don't you think you should water it before you go?”

Drat—the orchid
was
looking peaked. Fiona hated it when Gilbert was right.

“I suppose so,” she admitted, “unless you'd like to volunteer to do it?” The nearest sink was clear on the other side of the fourteenth floor.

“Oh, you've wasted enough of my afternoon already,” Gilbert chortled. “I really need to get back to work. But I'll walk you out.”

At least that'll get rid of him,
Fiona thought, and she rose to her feet and grabbed her pitcher. Just fifteen minutes until she'd be out of here and free of Gilbert Gadfly for a whole month—that was enough to put a little spring in her step. At the doorway, Fiona turned left to head for the restrooms and Gilbert turned right toward his cubicle.

What Fiona didn't see was that Gilbert kept turning until he'd spun a full one hundred eighty degrees and stepped right back into her office, gently sliding the door closed behind him.

She didn't see him scurry over to her computer and open up her Sent folder. She didn't see him compose a second e-mail to Gladys Gatsby with the subject line “New assignment—disregard my last message!”

She didn't see what he typed in the body of the e-mail before he clicked “Send” and slipped back out of her office, grinning like a cat who'd just eaten a mouse.

But two and a half hours later, Gladys did.

A WATCHED INBOX NEVER BOILS

G
LADYS OPENED HER NEW JOURNAL
the moment she got home. Her pencil dug into the paper so hard that it nearly punched a hole through the page.

Hamilton Herbertson is the worst!!! He is ickier than Pathetti's goopy-crusted pizzas, slimier than the gravy from Fred's Fried Fowl, and has a head bigger than the giant plastic burger outside of Sticky's. Who cares
if he's written a book? I'm a published writer, too, and I don't go around asking for special treatment or bragging about my “signature sandwich.” Ugh!!

And now I'm going to have to take swimming lessons with him every single day. I wish Rolanda had just let me drown.

No stars! (completely irredeemable)

She slammed the journal shut and flung it across her room. Reviewing usually calmed her down, but she was feeling just as agitated now as when she had walked into the house. Maybe it didn't work so well when you reviewed a person instead of food.

It was four thirty; Gladys's mom had dropped her at home after camp and then returned to work. How would Gladys fill the time until her parents came home for good? Tonight wasn't one of her nights to prepare dinner, and after all those hours in the camp kitchen, she didn't really want to touch more food, anyway. This was a strange new feeling, and she didn't like it.

Instead, she headed for her parents' home office and turned on the computer.

Gladys logged into her DumpMail account, and there in her inbox sat two new e-mails, both from her editor at the
New York Standard.
Hurrah! She clicked to the first one.

Dear Gladys,

Thanks again for your terrific review of Fusión Tapas! Look for it in Wednesday's issue. I'm impressed with just how much of their menu you were able to cover.

As I've mentioned before, I'll be on vacation for the remainder of July, but there are two restaurants that I'd like you to review in the meantime: Café Accra is a brand-new West African eatery in Greenwich Village, and Ristorante Massimo is a small ravioli bar in Midtown that opened last year that we haven't gotten around to visiting yet. I'd like to see reviews of both of these establishments upon my return to work on August 5.

The addresses of the restaurants are below. Have a terrific July!

Cheers,

Fiona

Two
new assignments! Her editor must have really liked the work she'd done so far. And both of these restaurants sounded great! How many flavors of ravioli would Gladys get to sample at Ristorante Massimo? What would the cuisine of Western Africa taste like? She'd have to experiment with some recipes at home before venturing to Café Accra.

Opening up a new tab in her browser, Gladys immediately began researching West African food. She had just bookmarked a recipe for a tasty-sounding Ghanaian dish called red-red (beans and tomatoes and ginger, oh my!) when she remembered that there had been a second e-mail in her inbox. Clicking back over, Gladys opened it up.

Gatsby,

Please disregard my last message—those reviews are canceled. I have a different assignment for you instead: Find the best hot dog in New York City.

Leave no street corner unvisited, and no dog untasted!

Your deadline remains August 5.

Cheers,

Fiona

P.S. Don't bother responding to this e-mail—I'm on vacation.

Gladys stared at the screen.

Hot dogs??

She felt like the message had reached out of the computer and slapped her across the face. It wasn't just what it said, but the way it was written—so harsh and commanding! Her editor was usually so much nicer over e-mail.

But even if Fiona had written it in her usual friendly way, there would be nothing nice about this message. In one fell swoop, Gladys's exciting summer filled with delicate pastas and boldly flavored stews had been ripped away and replaced with . . . salty meat on white bread.

Gladys clicked to the first e-mail; it had only been sent five minutes before the second. What had happened in those five minutes to change Fiona's mind? Why would her editor think this crazy hot dog assignment was a better fit for her?

She thought back to those forms she had filled out for the
Standard
a few months back, including her address and social security number. Could someone at her dad's office have already figured out that the check she'd received wasn't a mistake, and that the
New York Standard
had a twelve-year-old on its payroll? Had they told Fiona? And had Fiona decided to sentence Gladys to a summer of reviewing hot dogs because that was the kind of food a twelve-year-old would eat?

Stop thinking crazy,
Gladys told herself.
Fiona Inglethorpe isn't Mrs. Spinelli.
And anyway, if her editor found out that Gladys was only twelve, she wouldn't waste time cooking up a ridiculous assignment to punish her.

She would just fire her.

Gladys didn't want to get fired. Being a restaurant critic had been her life's dream ever since she'd found out that such a job existed.
You'll just have to write the review,
she told herself. That's what professionals did—accepted assignments without questions or complaints. And with her boss on vacation, it wasn't like she could ask questions now even if she wanted to.

Still . . . find the best hot dog in New York City? Where should she even begin? She thought back to the day she'd spent with her dad in March, traipsing around Manhattan collecting taxes. There had been hot dog carts on almost every corner. And that was in just one of the five boroughs! What about Queens, and Brooklyn, and Staten Island, and the Bronx? There had to be thousands of street corners with hot dog vendors on them. How on earth was she supposed to get to them all?

She needed Sandy's help. Opening a new message, Gladys began to type furiously.

Dear Sandy,

Hi! If you're reading this, you've found the Wi-Fi. (Good job!)

Camp Bentley is just about as bad as I imagined, but I doubt I'll be spending much time there after today. The reason is my new assignment: I'm supposed to find the best hot dog in New York City. Gaaaah!

There are so many street carts selling hot dogs, I don't even know where to start. Any ideas? Maybe you could put together some kind of grid or matrix to help me figure out how many different places I need to try and how to organize them?

Sorry to be so demanding in my very first e-mail of the summer.

Miss you lots,

Gladys

She clicked “Send,” then sat at the computer for almost fifteen minutes watching her inbox. Maybe Sandy was combing the woods right now, holding her tablet above his head in search of a signal. Maybe now was the moment that he was breaking into the camp director's network. Or . . .
now
!

But no message came through.
I guess a watched pot really never does boil
, Gladys thought—and with a heart that felt as flat and heavy as a cast-iron skillet, she reluctantly turned off the computer.